


#jeffcarterwasright

by formerlydf



Category: Hockey RPF, Twitter (Fandom)
Genre: Anthropomorphic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-02
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-12-17 11:52:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/867220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/formerlydf/pseuds/formerlydf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, @LAKings gets pissed at @BlueJacketsNHL and goes off to sulk in Pittsburgh with @Penguins. It's not Sea Isle, but hey, any port in a storm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	#jeffcarterwasright

**Author's Note:**

> I have only myself to blame for this, honestly, but I'm going to blame [hapakitsune](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hapakitsune/pseuds/hapakitsune) instead. Just because I can.

“Pittsburgh?” Lumbus says. Is LA hallucinating or does he sound a little offended? “Really?”

LA bitterly regrets picking up the phone. “It’s the off-season,” he says, tilting his chin up. The visual effect is lost over the phone, obviously, but it helps him feel more defiant than defensive. “I can go anywhere I want.”

“You hate Pittsburgh.”

LA hates Pittsburgh. It’s a poky little city and the people there actually wear winter coats. If LA can’t go out in flip-flops during hockey season, it’s too cold. “I’m expanding my horizons,” he says coolly. “Anyway, I like Pen.”

“ _Pen_?” Lumbus demands. “Since when is he _Pen_?”

LA tries not to feel a bitter sense of satisfaction at shattering Lumbus’s stupid laidback, deadpan, just-barely-counts-as-Midwestern calm, until he remembers the first time Lumbus casually mentioned “Ed” in the middle of a conversation. Suddenly he feels both a lot less triumphant and a lot more willing to take the petty victories, even the mean ones.

Being in love with Lumbus is really not doing much for his ability to retain any sort of moral high ground.

“We kept in touch after the playoffs,” he says. “And I don’t see how my friendship with him is any of your business.”

“I could say the same thing about my friendship with Ed,” Lumbus says.

The nickname barely hurts anymore. And at least LA wasn’t the first one to bring up the homewrecking Canadian. Petty victories. “The difference is that when I say I’m just friends with someone, I actually mean it.”

“So you’re just running off to the East Coast?” Lumbus snorts. “What next, you’re going to go sulk in Sea Isle?”

“You know what?” LA asks, drawing himself up as tall as he possibly can. “Maybe I’d rather lock myself in a beach house in New Jersey than talk to anyone from Columbus. I hope you and _Ed_ are very happy together.”

Throwing the phone across the room is a completely reasonable way of hanging up.

-

Throwing the phone across the room turns out to be slightly less reasonable when you’re trying to check Twitter with a cracked screen. Whatever; they have Apple stores in Pennsylvania.

-

Pittsburgh is cloudy and humid and has absolutely no beaches, but that doesn’t matter, since LA is never planning to go outside again. “How would you feel if I never left your house?” he asks Pen, interrupting the speech about how the sheets are here and the towels are there and the bathroom is over in that hallway.

“If you don’t train during the offseason, you’ll never make it to the playoffs next year,” Pen says placidly, because apparently nothing fazes him besides Sidney Crosby’s head injuries. “Besides, Pennsylvania is closer to Ohio than California is.”

Fucking Ohio. LA gives up on the house tour in favor of collapsing onto the couch and sighing. “Why are you always right about everything?”

“Uh.” Pen shrugs awkwardly with his arms full of linen. “It’s just a fact.”

Pen seems like a pretty cool guy — he invited LA to stay, after all — but a talker, he is not. He gingerly sets the sheets down on the coffee table and sits down in the empty space on the couch next to LA.

“I wasn’t right when I thought we would beat the Bruins,” he says, like it’s a peace offering. Maybe it is.

“Sorry, buddy.”

“We’ll work harder next year,” Pen says. Sometimes he bears an unnerving resemblance to his captain.

LA supposes that it’s a small consolation, at least, that he made it farther in the playoffs than Lumbus and whoever he’s Twitter-flirting with this week. He sighs again. “I really hate him.”

“I know,” Pen says.

“I would have voluntarily gone to Ohio, just to see him,” LA says. This is huge. LA hates Ohio almost as much as he hates any place that isn’t California.

Pen doesn’t respond, so they sit in silence for a moment. LA isn’t really good with silence, unless it’s the silent treatment he’s currently trying to give Lumbus. “I think this is the part where you’re supposed to say that he’s an asshole and I deserve better.”

“I think this is the part where I say that I’ve got two six-packs in the fridge and nowhere to be tomorrow morning,” Pen says, and LA is struck by a surge of affection so strong he almost has the urge to cry.

-

“Why are you being so nice to me?” LA yawns, when he’s about one beer away from being horizontal.

Pen’s shoulder moves under LA’s cheek. A shrug, probably. Either that or Pen is trying to dislodge him, which isn’t going to happen any time soon. “We’re friends.”

LA snorts. “You didn’t even notice me until I won the Cup.”

A hand settles on his back, rising and falling as he breathes. Pen is a lot less stand-offish in person than he seems on Twitter. Of course, everyone seems stand-offish on Twitter compared to Lumbus, who could flirt with a troll. Actually, now that LA thinks of it, he does flirt with trolls. Regularly. It was one of the things that made LA fall in love with him in the first place.

“Jack Johnson was on your team,” Pen says finally. LA has no idea what he’s talking about.

“What?”

“Sidney Crosby is my captain.”

LA needs another beer. “Okay,” he says, and doesn’t move to get it. He’s too comfortable right now.

“I noticed you,” Pen says.

-

Pen isn’t hungover, because he’s an asshole, albeit an asshole who has somehow ended up as LA’s de facto best friend. At least he has the decency to make a fresh pot of coffee before he says, “You can’t hide here forever, you know.”

“Why do you not look like shit right now?” LA groans, grabbing the mug that Pen has helpfully left on the counter and making his caffeine pilgrimage to the coffeepot. Pen doesn’t bother answering, which is fine, because now that the coffee fumes are starting to wake him up a little bit it’s easier to remember that LA drank about three times as much as Pen did last night. Pen also alternated every drink with water, because he is, apparently, That Person.

He probably worked out this morning, too.

By the time LA’s coffee is cool enough to drink, he thinks he’s regained enough of his composure to try and laugh, “I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours and you’re already kicking me out?” He bites back a joke about Gary Bettman. He doesn’t think Pen would take that well.

“No,” Pen says, taking a loaf of bread and a carton of eggs out of the refrigerator. “I wouldn’t have invited you if I weren’t happy to have you here. But —”

“I know, I know, gym, development camp, training, playoffs.” Also the beach. The lack of ocean near Pen’s house is a serious downside.

“That too,” Pen says. He puts two slices of bread in the toaster. “But I was going to say that you have to talk to him at some point.”

Pen is the worst defacto best friend ever. LA slumps down, resting his arms on the countertop and his head on his arms. “Can’t I just wait until the next time I play him?”

“Considering how often you two are on Twitter?”

LA turns his head so he can squint at Pen, who’s cracking eggs into a bowl. “Is that judgement? You know, showing a little personality on Twitter isn’t a bad thing —”

“You don’t have to listen to me,” Pen says. He turns around, looking more patient than LA thinks he can handle with this sort of headache. “And trust me, I know how important a good defense is, but I think you’ll feel better if you’re proactive. And I think you’re strong enough to handle it.”

“Jeff Carter left Columbus and he got the Stanley Cup,” LA mumbles. “All I got was a hangover and a pep talk.”

“And breakfast,” Pen says, calmly scrambling eggs. Is he smiling? LA thinks Pen might be smiling. “I’m very good at breakfast.”

LA exhales into the countertop. “Thanks,” he says finally, and he thinks Pen knows that he’s not talking about the food.


End file.
